A Cry From Beyond

by WR Armstrong

  “I might just do that,” I replied, although the idea of sharing drinks with the fuzz left me cold.

  At last PC Derek Morgan announced I was free to go. He wandered back to his car, got in and drove off, offering a friendly wave as he went. I returned the gesture, grudgingly. As I said, I don’t go a bundle on cops at the best of times. I like ‘em even less when they turn out to be hypocrites. The excitement over, I made a right turn off the main road, which took me up a narrow leafy track bordered either side by trees and bushes, to the right of which was a clearing. I brought the car to a sudden stop, High Bank momentarily forgotten.

  The clearing led into a huge sloping yard, at the end of which stood the derelict shell of a big grey stone farmhouse. The agent hadn’t mentioned this place. If ever there was a candidate for a haunted house, this was it, for it was shrouded in a fine veil of mist that made it look depressingly bleak and forgotten.

  Four towering chimneys rose from a mildewed roof. Virtually every window was boarded. The creepiest thing about the place was the large number of birds in evidence; huge birds with large beaks and shiny black plumage. I studied the place for any signs of life behind a window that wasn’t boarded, but saw nothing. Following a moments deliberation I slipped the car into drive, and carried on down the deserted track.

  A minute or so later I was gazing at High Bank Cottage, a simple white brick structure with a clay-tiled roof and leaded windows. It was about as private as you could get, and looked incredibly inviting. It also looked incredibly familiar. Well, it would do, I told myself, I’d already seen its photograph in the agent’s brochure, but that wasn’t quite it, because the farm house along the way had had a similar effect on me. Now why, I wondered, would that be? I glanced back at Lennon, as if seeking an answer. The mutt stared at me in dumb canine silence, momentarily reminding me of a large golden teddy bear I’d once seen on a kid’s TV programme.

  Two cars were parked outside the property; a silver Range Rover that’d seen better days and a dark blue Ford Focus. The former was owned by my new landlord, a dear old lady called Mrs. Corbett, while the latter belonged to the letting agent, a Mr. Young from Sharman, Turner and Young, Estate Agents, a dour beady, eyed little man who cast repeated nervous glances at his watch. We finalised the deal inside the cottage, my new home, which entailed payment of the bond in the form of cash, and the signing of the actual lease. Then, and only then, was I handed the keys to the property. With the formalities over Mr. Young beat a hasty retreat, a pressing engagement back at the office, while Mrs. Corbett, who was a blue rinsed little darling with a no nonsense manner, hung around to show me over the place and point out things she felt I should know. As she was doing this she mentioned in passing that she’d lived in the area most of her life, and renovated High Bank with her husband some years ago.

  ”Unfortunately Bernard’s no longer with us,” she informed me. “He passed away quite recently, around the time our last tenants vacated the cottage. I’ve dithered ever since about whether or not to sell, or re-let the place.”

  “What made you finally decide to re-let?”

  “A dream,” she said, surprising me, “in which Bernard insisted I do just that. So I did. I put it back on the market, and you got in touch the very same day.” She smiled sweetly. “Our good fortune seems to be down to my dear late husband. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I returned her smile, but said nothing, because I didn’t think it was quite the case. There was my own dream to consider, which was also responsible, at least in part, for bringing us together.

  Mrs Corbett went on to say that High Bank was at least three hundred years old, which explained the low ceilings and doorways, and the small compact rooms.

  “Bernard and I added the laundry and upstairs en-suite,” she concluded.

  First impressions suggested it was a homely little place, although Lennon seemed less than sure, having to be coaxed inside where he wandered around restlessly, refusing to settle. I put it down to him being in new surroundings.

  Mrs. Corbett pressed on with the guided tour. Having showed me where the logs were stored, she warned me not to leave rubbish exposed, as it attracted vermin. Inspecting the place to make sure it was clean and tidy, she added that the original cottage was once a pastoral home used by Ashley Church. When the nearby farm house was built, it was sold to the new land owner, and became home to those employed by him who paid a peppercorn rent for the privilege. Sometime later the same man built the chapel, which he gifted to the local community.

  “Sadly the chapel has long been out of service,” she went on. “Lack of business you might say. Ashley Church is the only place of worship roundabout now. Are you a religious man Mr. O’Shea?”

  I answered with a simple “no” whilst hoping offence wouldn’t be taken.

  “That makes two of us,” Mrs Corbett replied, allaying my fears.

  “Are there any plans for the disused farm house?” I asked; concerned redevelopment might be in the pipeline.

  “The property has been vacant for a very long time,” she explained. “Following the sudden death of its owner, it’s been the subject of a protracted probate. The owner’s daughter would’ve inherited the estate. But she upped sticks and left without so much as a bye or leave, and hasn’t been seen since. That was over twenty years ago now. I’m afraid ownership has never been resolved. It’s the old story of a feuding family cutting off their noses to spite their faces. I understand some members want to sell, while others want the property to remain in the family.”

  “And you say the daughter hasn’t been in touch since?”

  “No. It would’ve saved certain people an awful lot of time and trouble if she had. I don’t suppose the lawyers are complaining though.”

  Mrs Corbett wished me luck, and then left. At that point I noticed Lennon was missing.

  I found him sniffing around in the cellar, which was small and stank to high heaven. I quickly coaxed him away, and together we returned upstairs to the main section of the house.

  In light of what happened, I should’ve kept on going and put as much distance between myself and High Bank as humanly possible. By doing so at that point in the proceedings I may’ve escaped unscarred. I dare say a good few others would’ve too.

  But like a fool I stayed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My mother phoned to see how I was settling in. It was a call I’d been expecting. She was worried about me living out in the sticks on my own, especially in light of my accidental overdose, a situation made worse by the fact that she was the one to find me. She’d dropped by on her way into the city to meet friends, something she did quite often. When I failed to answer the door she’d used her key to gain access. And thank God she did. Now she was forever paranoid about my wellbeing. But that was okay. She was my mother, so it was allowed.

  Strong and independent, she had brought me up single handed following my father’s unexplained departure twenty odd years before. It’d been a struggle for her physically and emotionally but she’d come through with flying colours. As for my absent father, I’d long since given up all hope of ever seeing him again. For one thing he’d been pretty ill at the time of his disappearance; for another I really didn’t want to see him again anyway. As far as I was concerned he was history from the moment he deserted us.

  I was busy working out with a cigarette and a cup of cappuccino when she phoned that day to see how her only son was coping with life in the English countryside. She greeted me warmly and then it was question time.

  “How are you finding the place, not too cut off I hope?” she asked, straight to the point as always.

  “It’s okay,” I said, not wanting to make a big deal of it.

  “Does Lennon like it?”

  “Lennon’s got no choice in the matter.”

  “I do hope you’ve made the right decision, John.”

  “It’s absolutely perfect for me.”

  “If you have any problems, promise you’ll call.”
/>   “What kind of problems could I possibly have in this neck of the woods; it’s sheer bliss.”

  “I’m your mother, I worry.”

  “Well stop it right now mom, and that’s an order. High Bank Cottage is a dream. You really must visit and see the place for yourself.”

  “I have to go, John. I have an appointment in town. Call me later in the week; tell me how you’re getting on.”

  “Okay mom.”

  “Promise me?”

  “I promise.”

  She hung up.

  I called her straight back.

  “You really don’t like the idea of me being here, do you mom?”

  “It’s really none of my business, son.”

  “But you don’t, do you?”

  “I think you’ll be lonely.”

  “I’m here to rest. Besides I’ve got Lennon and my work for company. So stop worrying. In case you’d forgotten, I also happen to know a lot of people: I dare say I’ll have visitors.”

  Mom gave a little sigh. “That’s what worries me.”

  Mike was the first. He dropped by one weekend on his way up to Manchester where he was to launch a new band, hailed as the next Oasis. I prepared for his visit by buying in extra groceries and a couple of bottles of his favourite wine. I wanted to make him feel at home. He wasn’t just my business associate; he was also my friend and mentor. When the chips were down he was one of the few people who’d stood by me. To put it simply, he’d helped save my miserable life. I owed him, though he was never going to call up the debt. He wasn’t the type.

  I recall the weather being incredibly cold with an unseasonal amount of sunshine that day. The cottage, surrounded by frosty autumnal countryside, looked like something out of a picture postcard. I felt good, really good; a sensation denied to me for longer than I cared to remember: country life seemed to agree with this particular city kid. Unfortunately, my high spirits only made Mike suspicious. I guess he still thought of me as a no hope dope head; the good-looking kid who got lucky, then messed up to become yet another rock n roll victim.

  “You’ve managed to find yourself a neat little place,” he said climbing out of the gleaming new Audi he’d recently purchased.

  I acknowledged the compliment with a nod and a smile. “Let me get your luggage,” I said, going round to the car boot, but Mike waved me back.

  “Sorry John, I’m afraid it’s a flying visit. I have a breakfast meeting arranged first thing tomorrow morning. It was dumped on me at the last minute. I intend travelling up tonight so I can prepare.” He blew into his cupped hands to ward off the chill in the air. “A room has been pre-booked at a hotel near the Arena. I hate bloody hotels, but they can’t be avoided sometimes. Hope you’re not too put out. Another time maybe....”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. I ushered him inside the cottage and out of the cold.

  “Do you think you’ll stay here for long?” he asked as he stepped into the hall and wiped his shoes on the mat.

  “I’ll stay for as long as I have to,” I said taking his coat and hanging it on the wall hook. “I’ve signed on the dotted line, made my down payment, unpacked my stuff and got hooked up to the internet, so I guess I’m pretty settled already.”

  He nodded to himself, appraising his surroundings with an air of confidence gained from a lifetime of successful deals. A big man with a large appetite for the finer things in life, he had a reputation for being ruthless when it came to protecting his business interests, which, despite it all, still included me.

  As we passed into the living room I caught him scrutinising my appearance, doubtless checking to see that my eyes were focused, that my hands didn’t quiver. I suspect, given half a chance, he would’ve rolled up my shirtsleeves to check for puncture marks to the skin. Despite assurances otherwise, he was convinced I’d fled out to the sticks for no other purpose than to blow my mind in self imposed solitude.

  “I’m clean,” I told him earnestly; well, almost, I could’ve added.

  “I never claimed otherwise,” he replied. He glanced around the room, appeared to like what he saw, and wandered over to the window overlooking the expansive rear gardens. Then he was waving a hand, urging me to join him. “Come here, John, quick, check out the wild life!”

  I went over and was momentarily lost for words.

  Hundreds of birds, big ones the size of cats, with jet black plumage, like those I’d seen in the grounds of the derelict farmhouse, occupied the lawns and circled the sky above. Those in the air reminded me of vultures hovering over prey. Mike was completely blown away by the spectacle. “I wonder what kind they are,” he said as if to himself. And then, as an afterthought, “Do you think they could be dangerous?”

  I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching.

  All at once those on the ground took flight to join their counterparts in the sky. They soared regally above the treetops, eventually disappearing from view. Mike and I looked at each other, bewildered and awestruck by what we’d just witnessed.

  “That was totally weird,” Mike commented.

  I nodded agreement. “It was as if they were congregating for a reason: like they’d come along to take a look at the cottage.”

  “Or to check out the new tenant,” Mike added dryly.

  I changed the subject. “How about I show you round the rest of the house.”

  We left the living room and re-entered the hall, where Mike paused to ask me how I heard about High Bank.

  I told him about the brochure, but purposely neglected to mention the dream in which I’d foreseen its arrival, afraid of being ridiculed.

  “Seems like you dropped lucky,” he said. “This place should be on the lid of a chocolate box.”

  The cellar door caught his attention.

  “What’s through there?”

  I told him.

  He made to walk over.

  “Best steer clear,” I advised. “The atmosphere in there isn’t exactly welcoming.”

  Mike frowned and waited for me to elaborate.

  “Bad drains,” I explained.

  “In a cellar: is that possible?”

  “Who knows; I’m not a builder. It’s on my list for the landlord, along with the faulty kitchen door latch, and the side gate that refuses to close.” I motioned for him to follow me. “Come on, Mike, there’s more to this place than a musty old cellar.”

  We ended the guided tour upstairs in the attic room, now a temporary recording studio. He seemed genuinely impressed by my ingenuity.

  I explained the set up to him. The room stood right at the top of the house with a single dormer window overlooking the front yard, and driveway. The ceiling was high, the walls solid, making for impressive acoustics. The brains of the studio took the form of a Yamaha multi-track MD4 recorder with monitor, amp, effects processor, master recorder, drum machine and various accessories. It was a few years old now, and a bit antiquated by today’s standards, but it did the job nonetheless, enabling me to produce CD quality recordings that I could then pass straight onto the record company.

  Next to it was a Yamaha DX100 synthesiser, same era and same timeless quality. It boasted 24 user-programmable memory locations, and an ability to be linked to sequencers and guitar controllers. Opposite stood my guitars, the jumbo Gruhn-designed Guild with its solid spruce top, rosewood sides and back. Beside it stood my old Rotosound Swing bass, and Charvel Model 4 electric guitar, a present from Chrysalis Records for achieving a silver disc for a little ditty I wrote called, “Riding the Sky”. I played Mike a couple of my latest efforts, which he greeted with cautious optimism

  “Will you be able to meet the deadline?” he asked referring to my contractual obligations with my present record company.

  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

  He took a seat, which seemed to sag ever so slightly beneath his weight.

  “Have I mentioned that Frank Robson from NME is interested in interviewing you, John?”

  “Not that
I recall...” I picked up a guitar and lightly strummed.

  “He wants to call it “Johnny O’Shea, back from the dead!”

  I pulled a face.

  “Come on,” Mike said trying to be encouraging. “It’s a good angle.” He grinned crookedly. “You have to admit you did sort of die a death for a while.”

  I stopped strumming and sighed. “The title makes me sound like a bloody zombie.”

  Mike rolled his eyes, “How many times have I got to tell you, all publicity is good publicity!”

  “Yeah, right, and I’m Laurence of Arabia!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I reminded him of the time damning stories had appeared in the tabloids claiming I was a coke addict, which to my eternal shame was true. The publicity killed my image dead as a dodo. Until then I was seen as whiter than white, a good example to the young generation—I lost a lot of fans and record sales as a result; my career nosedived, never to fully recover.

  Mike wisely let the subject drop. Back downstairs in the front room I poured drinks, a whisky and soda for him, a beer for me. He got comfortable in one of the armchairs, pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, thrust them at me and said, “New management agreement. Sign on the dotted line.”

  “You really think I’m worth it?” I asked.

  He grinned. “I sometimes wonder. Best sign before I change my mind.”

  I did as he said and handed the document back. Then we toasted our future success.

  “Did I mention Michelle wants to talk to you about plans for a tour sometime late next year?” he said. “Doubtless she’ll be in contact before too long.”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “Pining for you,” he replied candidly.

  I stared into my glass not knowing what to say. I missed her too, but was far too stubborn to admit it.

  Mike sipped whisky, then stood and returned to the window through which we’d seen the birds. Gazing out, he said, “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”